


Inn the Mood for Murder

by ukiyo91



Series: Cozy Windmill Inn [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Murder Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2831036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autumn in New England is a time for fall foliage, Shakespeare festivals, and the most dreaded of guests: Leaf Peepers. Innkeeper Jonathan Toews and his partner Patrick Kane find their peaceful season interrupted by the gruesome discovery of a dead body on their property, thrusting the two of them into a mystery that threatens to unravel their once-idyllic existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inn the Mood for Murder

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came sooner than I anticipated! I'm loving this verse and really wanted to try my hand at writing a mystery. It was way more difficult than I thought...but I'm lucky to have such great friends that have cheered me on and looked things over. Thanks to torigates, cathedralhearts, slashneggs, and Alex! 
> 
> Obviously, I know next to nothing about police procedure, so read with that understanding. 
> 
> Lastly, I might be done with this verse for a little bit while I focus on other projects, or at least until I find another good prompt. If you have any ideas for the next entry in this series, please let me know in the comments!

 

Jonny rubs his hands together and blows on them, warming his skin. The brightness of the sun does little to counteract the crisp cold of a November in Massachusetts, even for someone who’d grown up in Canada. He regrets not grabbing his gloves on his way outside, picturing them on his bedside table.

For an innkeeper, fall is a mixed blessing. The hoards of families and entitled second-home-owners who descend on the Berkshires for summer music festivals, theater, and hiking, are all but gone, and in their place are the more “mature” couples who come for weekends to go antiquing and admire fall foliage. Although less of a hassle, these folks can be equally taxing on Jonny’s nerves. It’s the older folks who end up complaining the most about the heat, the cold, lack of toilet paper, (or too much toilet paper) and his cheap coffee. Although, Jonny admits to himself as he grabs the rake from the shed next to the guest house, anything’s better than ski families.

Jonny’s owned the Cozy Windmill Inn for a little over four years now, and sometimes it still catches him by surprise that this is his life. Having gone from almost being a professional hockey player to an innkeeper was a radical change, but it forced him to keep busy and allowed him to make his own rules, at a time when rules and structure were important to him. Now that the economy’s picked up again, business is actually going well. Going by that alone, Jonny would be pretty content. Considering the other recent changes he’s made in his life, Jonny can honestly say he’s never been happier.

Still, there are some drawbacks to being a cheap bastard who insists on doing the majority of the manual labor himself. Leaves are fast becoming the bane of his existence. Beautiful on the trees, they cover almost every inch of space in his parking lot, and raking them has become a tedious daily activity.

His guests have all checked out and Jonny has a couple of hours before Patrick comes back from rehearsals, so he gets into a rhythm of raking, letting it lull him into a state of quiet contemplation.

Movement out of the corner of his eye snaps him out of it, and Jonny looks up to see the door open in the building across the way. Separating his property from his neighbor’s is a tiny little graveyard, filled with former occupants of the Inn. It’s a little morbid, but Jonny kind of appreciates its ruinous beauty. Adjoining that, is the building that houses the town’s free library and its historic commission. Jonny’s been in there only once, and had stared down rows of romance novels and cheap paperback mysteries before beating a hasty retreat.

Mrs. Klein, the kindly half-blind librarian emerges from the building, locking the door behind her and glancing up to give Jonny a wave.  

Jonny nods and waves back before returning to his work. He doesn’t get to the gym much these days, and sometimes he looks at his body in the mirror and misses the defined muscles of near-constant conditioning. It’s not like he’s really let himself go, but it’s obvious that he’s no longer a star athlete. Two hours of raking leaves later, and he’s astounded by how out of breath he is.

He perks up when he hears Patrick pull into the drive and hustles across the yard to greet his boyfriend when he gets out of the car.

Patrick breaks out into a grin and pulls him forward. “You’re all sweaty,” He murmurs into Jonny’s hair. “I love when you’re sweaty.”

Jonny doesn’t often indulge in sentimental ruminations, but Patrick’s presence in his life has changed a lot of things, and sometimes he has to reflect on how lucky he’s been to have found a relationship this solid. They’ve been together a little over a year now, and he’s never once regretted denying Patrick soap when he stayed for the first summer.

“How’s the play going?” Jonny asks as they make their way up the walk to the front door. The bell atop clangs noisily as they head inside, and Jonny takes a moment’s pleasure in his empty house, free of strangers.

“I think we all had a breakthrough today. We’ve been rehearsing the big ensemble scene in the last act and everyone’s beats were off for the longest time. I think we’ll actually be able to pull this shit off.”

One of the highlights of the autumn season at Shakespeare & Company is the annual Fall Festival, a weekend marathon of plays performed by company members and some talented high school students. With less than two weeks to go, Patrick’s been in constant rehearsals for _As You Like It_.

“Who do we have coming in tonight?” Patrick asks, as they circle around the game room, making sure there aren’t any stray checker pieces dotting the floors.

“No one until tomorrow evening,” Jonny tells him, surveying his inn like a king would his domain. They may need to replace the upholstery on the loveseat soon, he notes to himself.

“Oh.” Patrick lets the noise hang, rife with insinuation. “So we’re alone then?”

Jonny meets his gaze and smiles.

  
  


*****

“Fuck, Jonny, fuck. I--” Patrick cuts off with a whine, arching off the bed as Jonny twists his fingers.

“Yeah?” Jonny asks breathlessly.

Patrick sounds ragged. “Yeah. Oh yeah.”

Jonny kisses him, eager tongues meeting.

As good as things were between them, this had always been the best. This almost instinctive ability to give each other exactly what he wanted, what he needed.

Jonny reaches for more lube, coating his cock and leading it to Patrick’s ass, his most private place.

Patrick keens at the first intimate press. “Oh Christ, Jonny. Do it.”

“There?” Jonny whispers, dragging the tip up and down, teasing his mark.

Patrick pushes his hips down, trying to get more.

“I’ll give you more.” Jonny kisses his shoulder. “All you can take.”

He thrusts home, and Patrick shoves back to meet him, never passive. They urge each other on, the squeak of bedsprings a staccato beat to accompany their gasps and moans.

Jonny’s hand finds Patrick’s cock and works him; Patrick’s movements become frantic underneath him.

They move in tandem for long moments, and Jonny feels himself slipping towards the point of no return. He could stay in Patrick forever, but he reaches his peak all too soon, burying his moan into the neck beneath him.

Patrick’s orgasm is drawn out by the lazy movements of Jonny’s hand, and Jonny pants out a laugh against his skin as Patrick whines in frustration. “You fucker.”

Afterwards, they lay spooned together and Patrick whispers his lines into the darkness of their bedroom. Jonny likes listening to the cadence and rhythm of his voice, the way he takes to his characters and learns their personalities.

He falls asleep like that, only to awaken what feels like moments later to the sharp ring of the doorbell. Patrick groans but doesn’t wake, and Jonny sits up. It’s just after midnight, and Jonny listens carefully to see if the sound was just a fluke. The silence of the bedroom makes his breath sound loud, and before Jonny knows it he’s out of bed and heading to the front door.

The inn is quiet, and Jonny can admit a little creepy when completely empty. There’s no rattle of a radiator or rush of noise from the pipes to signal occupancy. He peers through the curtain of the front door, looking for a silhouette but doesn’t find one. Still, he doesn’t stop himself from opening the door and looking out into the night.

Beyond the pale illumination of the porch light, he can’t see anything. No cars are on the road, and the stillness of the darkness beyond Jonny’s sight is unnerving. He waits a few seconds, and when no one emerges from that darkness he figures the doorbell to have been a system fluke.

His rest, when he returns to it, is easy.

****

There must have been heavy winds that night because when Jonny heads out the next morning to start clearing some spots for the later-arriving guests, he finds the ground blanketed once more in shades of red, yellow and brown.

Patrick, sitting on the porch with a mug of coffee and his script, catcalls him as he grabs the rake and starts to work. Jonny preens a little bit, flexing his muscles as he bends over a little more to grab an especially large bundle.

That’s when he sees it.

Nestled in the thin patch of bushes between his parking lot and the cemetery is a misshapen lump. Peering closer, Jonny picks out a dark fleece jacket and some denim before he realizes what he’s seeing.

“Holy shit!”

“What?” Patrick calls out. When Jonny doesn’t reply, he walks over to him, coffee still in hand.

He looks at what Jonny’s looking at and staggers back.

“Holy fuck, that’s--”

“A body.” Jonny says grimly.

“ _MacDuff_!” Patrick cries at the same time.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“What?"

“That’s Chris Kelley. He’s playing MacDuff this season at Shakespeare.”

“So what’s he doing in our parking lot?” Jonathan feels sickened as he looks at the pale, lifeless body before them. It’s obvious that the guy’s head’s been bashed with something. A dark stain extends like a halo around his skull.

“Jesus. We barely ever spoke. I have no idea.” Patrick looks just as nauseous as he feels, and Jonny takes his hand.

“Call the cops. Thank fuck we don’t have any guests coming until the evening.”

 

****

In addition to co-running an artisan butchery, Patrick Sharp is also the town Sheriff, a job that usually entails gleefully pulling over tourists who dare to drive a mile over the speed limit of 25 MPH. A long-time local, Sharp had also been the poster child for good Berkshire living: attending a Montessori school that put him in touch with music, nature, and soy lattes; an active participant in nearly every charity triathlon and a cheerful small business owner who attended every Chamber of Commerce function.

As Sheriff, his model good looks and perpetually amused countenance generally annoyed the fuck out of Jonny, who grudgingly respected  him because Sharp had been one of the first to introduce himself back when he’d first bought the inn.

It was unnerving to say the least to see Sharp’s easygoing manner stripped away as he gazed down at the corpse of Chris Kelley.

“Anything to confess, boys?” He asks, casting a side glance to Jonny and Patrick. He earns back a set of scowls.

“I’ve never seen the guy before in my life.” Jonathan tells him as a swarm of uncomfortable-looking police staff swarm the scene. This is possibly the first murder many of them have ever seen.

“I knew him vaguely from Shakespeare and Company,” Patrick says. He’s no longer holding Jonny’s hand, but they’re so close their arms brush. “We never acted in a show together; he was seasonal like I used to be, but he did more work in the fall.”

“The theater company’s about thirty minutes away. You wouldn’t happen to know if he was renting a room here in town?”

“Possibly down the road. There are a couple of other B&Bs that might do a similar deal to what Patrick did for a while, renting a room for the summer.” Jonathan casts his gaze to the side, where a couple of curious joggers have stopped to stare. Nothing stays secret in this town for long; soon his parking lot will be swarming with onlookers. And Jonny still needs to finish raking. He can feel his teeth clenching.

“It was a blow to the head, right?” Patrick looks inquisitive. “Something heavy and blunt, by the looks of it.”

Sharp nods. “I’ll need to let the coroner confirm, but rigor mortis suggests he’s been dead since around midnight. You two were together, right?”

Jonny tenses, thinking back to the ringing of the doorbell, the phantom noise he had investigated. He recalls the disquiet of the pitch black night, the way the darkness had somehow muted sound. “I think he may have tried to get inside last night.” He hears himself say, and out of the corner of his eye Patrick swirls his head around.

Sharp looks intrigued and Jonny relays the story. “Sometimes the doorbell rings just because the system’s a little old. It had woken me up so I figured I’d investigate.”

“It’s odd that the victim would ring your doorbell and then run away from possible help if he was being attacked.” Sharp says distantly, as though trying to figure out the logistics.

Jonny agrees. The distance between his door and the spot where he died is about thirty feet, and closer to the adjoining cemetery than to any form of shelter.

“Maybe he let his guard down,” Patrick suggests. “Maybe he was convinced he wasn’t being threatened and then walked away after ringing the doorbell and then was attacked.” His tone sounds calculating.

“It’s possible,” Sharp agrees, and then sighs. “We haven’t had an incident like this in years. Mostly we get petty crime and the odd second home break-in. The fact that the victim wasn’t a local makes things even more difficult. We don’t know he got here either. We’re going to have to go door-to-door asking folks what they saw or heard.”

Jonny nods. “Listen, I don’t mean to be obnoxious, but we kind of have three couples coming by in a few hours. I’m not sure how a parking lot covered in yellow tape with a chalk outline is going to go over.”

Sharp shrugs. “Can’t help you there, Jonny. We need to take every precaution here in case there’s something we missed or that you accidentally swept up with your rake.”

Patrick lets out a low sound. “Murder at the Cozy Windmill. You couldn’t make this stuff up.” Trust Patrick Kane to find the humor in this situation. Jonny feels himself relax a little. The guests already put down their deposit. They can work with murder.

Turns out his New Yorkers love the whole small-town-crime angle, and chat delightedly over cocktails that evening about how exciting the whole thing is. “Like out of Hawthorne or Poe,” one of them suggests to Jonny.

Patrick smiles sheepishly at him when Jonny comes back into their quarters later that night, tired and stressed out.

“Well, that was something.” He reaches out to rub between Jonny’s shoulders.

“A fucking corpse in my bushes. I thought running an inn was supposed to be boring.”

“Maybe you are legit haunted, like I’ve always suspected. This place makes way too many noises for it to not be full of dead Revolutionary soldiers.”  

“The house wasn’t built until 1790,” Jonny reminds him. Patrick waves a hand. “Fine. Full of Victorian children who died of scarlet fever. Either way, I’m surprised there hasn’t been a murder here until now.”

Jonny opens the fridge and pulls out leftover Chinese, sticking it in the microwave for dinner. Patrick is silent behind him, but it’s a contemplative silence. “What?” He asks, without turning around.

“I know that Sharp’s on the case and all, but that guy was one of the Company. Shakespearean actors stick together. Maybe I could ask around a bit tomorrow and see if anyone knows something. They may talk to me before they talk to the police.”

Jonny turns to regard Patrick, taking in his blonde hair, grown out into soft curls for his role. For a split-second it’s not Kelley’s body he found but Patrick’s, cold and still, and something in him clenches in unknown fear.

“I don’t think you should interfere with an investigation. This isn’t like a hit and run, or any kind of accident. Someone killed this guy in cold blood.”

Patrick shakes his head. “That’s all the more reason to find out the truth. There has to be an explanation as to why he was there so late last night. He rang the doorbell, Jonny. He was asking for our help.”

“Pat...” Jonny trails off. “Listen. Please don’t do anything stupid. Let Sharp and his men take care of this.”

Patrick gives him a look, grabbing a fork and sticking it into the carton of cold rice that Jonny placed on the island counter. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, Jonny, but I am a co-innkeeper now. I have equal responsibility to make sure that nothing keeps people from experiencing the full charm of the Cozy Windmill Inn. And that includes dead bodies.”

Patrick’s resolved face doesn’t lessen the sense of unease Jonny feels, but he lets it go. They eat their dinner like the grown ass men they are, standing over a counter and avoiding any vegetables.

****

The next morning Jonny goes into town. Police are still investigating the area around where Kelley was found, and none of them seem to be in a chatty mood.

Jonny heads to the coffee shop, where he relays the past 24 hours to Duncs and Seabs, co-owners of the cafe.

“Holy shit, man.” Seabs pauses in the middle of Jonny’s customary double espresso, eyebrows raised higher than he’s ever seen them.

“Yeah. So I got a dead body on my property and the guests seem to think I’m running a kitschy theme motel or something.”

Duncs plucks a cookie out of the tin and hands it to Jonny silently.

“Do the police have any leads?”

“Sharp’s just as confused as we are.” Jonny tells him, taking a satisfying bite out of the gingersnap. The coffee shop isn’t very crowded on a Wednesday at 10am. A few customers sit on the couch in the back and chat, while a couple of solitary figures sit at tables glued to their laptops.

“Chris Kelley. Why does that ring a bell?” Duncs takes out his phone, typing in the name and then pausing. “Shit, he came in a lot. Nearly every week actually, like clockwork.”

“What? Let me see.” Seabs leans over and stares at the picture, turning his partner’s hand so Jonny can see a blurry profile pic from the theater company’s website. It’s their guy all right. “This is the guy who was killed? Yeah, he came in a lot actually. I mean, he was obviously a seasonal dude but starting about two months ago he’d stop by every Wednesday, order a chai and sit in the back.”

Jonny knows he shouldn't, but, “Did he ever meet with anyone while he was here?”

Duncs peers at him for a moment before nodding. “He’d always sit with this one guy. Actually he’s here now.” He comes around the counter and subtly points towards the back of the cafe, where a slightly dweeby guy with glasses sits with his computer. “I never learned his name, but they’d sit together every week for about an hour and talk.”

Seabs folds his arms on the counter. “You gonna do some sleuthing, Jonny?”

Jonny shoots him a look. “No. Patrick wants to do the whole boy detective thing. I just want some answers.” He grabs his mug and heads to the back of the cafe.

The man looks up when Jonny approaches, face set in an expectantly puzzled expression. “Can I help you?”

“Did you know Chris Kelley?” Jonny asks, remaining standing so the guy has to look up at him.

The man’s mouth opens and closes. He’s silent for a long moment before asking, “Who wants to know?”

“The guy who found him dead in the bushes yesterday.” Jonny states, and the guy looks shocked.

“Chris is _dead_?”

Jonny helps himself to a seat. “I own the Cozy Windmill Inn on twenty-three. I was raking leaves yesterday when I found Kelley’s body. He’d been hit in the head with a blunt instrument and the cops are going to rule it a homicide. The owners said you met with him often.”

“Yeah, but I had nothing to do with his death!” The guy protests.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to understand why a Shakespearean actor who had no reason to be near my house rang my doorbell at midnight and then ran away before being bashed in the head and left to die.”

The man’s face is pale, and hands shake as he holds his mug.

“Look. I wish I could tell you how I knew him, but the fact of the matter is that I can’t tell his secrets.”

Jonny doesn’t know why he’s feeling so stubborn about this, but he thinks again about Patrick’s expression when he saw the body. The fact that he’d known the man--that coincidental relationship changes things for him, makes it strangely personal.

“What’s your name?” He asks, and the guy blinks.

“Mark. Lazerus. I’m a freelance blogger and I usually work from this cafe.”

“I’m Jonathan Toews. Listen, my boyfriend knew this guy. Not very well, but they worked together. I know the cops have little to go on, but if you saw this guy every week you have to feel bad about his death.” He pauses and lets his stare go determined and slightly confrontational, the way he remembers from when he’d take faceoffs. The force of his gaze must actually work on Mark, because the guy swallows and looks away.

“I really shouldn’t be saying anything. It’s against policy, but...I was Chris’s sponsor.”

“Sponsor?” Jonny asks, confused.

Mark nods. “For GA. Gambler’s Anonymous. Chris had an addiction and he’d been in recovery for a few months. I met with him every week so he’d have someone to talk to. A support system of sorts.”

Jonny sits back, mind whirling. Even if he’d been...sober from gambling, it opens up another dimension in the case. Motive, maybe?

“Could that have been why someone wanted him dead? Maybe he owed someone something?”

Mark shrugs, helpless, a shifty look in his eye. “I honestly don’t know, man. Look, that’s all I know and I’m happy to tell the cops that too. I didn’t know Chris outside of meetings, so I have no idea what else was going on in his life.”

“Okay.” Jonathan gets up and pauses, reaching into his pocket and pulling out one of the embossed business cards that Patrick insisted he get. “I know I have no real power here, but if there’s anything else you think of, give me a call. I want this figured out too.”

Mark nods and Jonny returns it, his body buzzing with something not unlike adrenaline as he waves to Duncs and Seabs and heads out of the shop.

****

Jonny runs some errands in town comes back to the Inn in time to prepare tea and some coffee cake for the guests, who are thankfully content to sit and gab amongst themselves.

He’s sitting alone in his office, playing solitaire when his cell phone flashes with Patrick’s grinning face.

“Hey babe, grab your stuff. We are not having another pathetic meal in the murder mansion.”

Jonny rubs his face, only realizing now how tense the day has been when his shoulders practically drop three inches at the sound of Patrick’s voice.

“Want to go somewhere quiet?”

Patrick scoffs. “Nah, I can practically hear you clicking away at your computer in the dark. We’re going to open mic night and eating burritos.”

Jonny groans, but it’s half with laughter. “Come on, you know I hate that place.”

“Exactly. Meet me in thirty minutes, I’ll buy us shots. Plus, I have news for you about our ead-day ody-bay situation.”

“I actually have some information for you too,” Jonny tells him, reaching for his jacket.

“Ooh, the plot thickens. See you in a bit, love ya.”

Making sure the guests know where the spare key is, Jonny heads out to his car. His eyes can’t help but be drawn to the spot where he found Chris Kelley. The man in the photo had been ruggedly good looking, with an elastic face that suited his career in acting. Patrick’s face could be expressive too, but there was a quality of stillness about him that sometimes struck Jonny. His appeal for Jonny had always kind of been in what Jonny couldn’t explicitly see; the intangibles that Jonny would happily spend the rest of his life discovering.

One of the popular meal spots in Great Barrington was the Hippie Hut, so named for the family of actual hippies that had trooped into town a few years before and cornered the market on quirky charm and giant sandwiches. Part of the draw were their open mic nights, which Jonny detested and Patrick loved for expressly that reason. It generally turned out to be more fun that Jonny admitted, only because the Berkshires cultivated some peculiar talent.

Case in point, as Jonny is waved over to Patrick’s table, one of the lovable town hobos is serenading a visibly uncomfortable tourist couple with an off-key rendition of Piano Man.

He passes by Andrew Shaw, who’s practically yelling at his girlfriend to be heard over the noisy din of the restaurant. Patrick’s tucked into a corner, seated next to a sullen looking group of girls and Mrs. Klein and her husband, who runs the historic commission. They wave at him and he waves back before sitting down and practically diving into the bowl of nachos Patrick’s ordered.

“Hey yourself,” Patrick remarks with a grin. Mouth full, Jonny reaches out a hand and brushes it against Patrick’s on the table.  

Once they’ve each stuffed their faces with guacamole, Jonathan sits back and relays the information he learned today.

Patrick listens with rapt interest. “So you’re saying he’d had a gambling problem and you think that may be connected somehow to the murder?”

“I mean, I don’t know. The police could have come up with a completely different theory with their resources. Just thought it was interesting is all.”

Patrick hums, ruminating it over. “Well, I did a little reconnaissance too. On the down low, of course.”

“Of course.” Jonny knew Patrick’s curiosity would win out. Patrick beams at him, unrepentant.

“They made the announcement and people were stunned. They’ve been rehearsing about five shows at once in that complex, so there were a lot of people around. I scoped out the crowd but people seemed genuinely upset; I got the sense that he’d been generally well liked.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, but then here’s the thing,” Patrick takes a swig of beer. “There were rumors that he’d been clashing with someone in the tech crew, a guy named Richards. No one knew why. That is, it wasn’t a professional spat. When I tried to corner him, the guy seemed super cagey.”

“Cagey as in, maybe he killed the guy?” Jonny feels his pulse pick up at the thought of Patrick being in danger.

Patrick shakes his head slightly. “No, I didn’t get that vibe from him specifically. But he knew something about Kelley, something that maybe would’ve gotten him in trouble. The guy evaded me, but I was going to call Sheriff Sharp tonight and let him know to look into that.”

Jonny grins. “Should I be calling you Frank Hardy?”

“Only if you’re looking for really kinky sex, you pervert.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I like the idea of you in clean-pressed khakis and slicked back hair.”

“Would you be playing my brother then?”

“You’re right. That’s kinky.”

Their banter is interrupted by a high pitched wailing noise, coming from the stage. Two women in peasant dresses and vampy red lipstick are crooning the words to an ukulele version of Let It Go.

Jonny snorts, and Patrick shushes him.

“Shut up, Jonathan. This is my jam.” He hums, even more obnoxiously off-pitch and Jonny shakes with suppressed laughter, earning him an indulgent look from Mrs. Klein.

As usual, Jonny realizes, Patrick knows just what he needs.

 

*****

Thursday dawns bright and mild, and Jonny flips pancakes with a little extra relish, sprinkling copious amounts of powdered sugar over the short stacks to bring out to his guests. Everyone’s checking out today, leaving him and Patrick another day and half of privacy before the weekenders arrive.

Patrick stumbles into the kitchen, wrapping a scarf around his neck clumsily and reaching for a kiss even as he grabs a slice of toast from the plate. “I’m late. Forgot to call Sharp last night cause you got me so drunk, so I’ll do it from the road.”

Jonny grabs Patrick’s shoulders, holding him close and making the kiss last a little longer, just to savor the feel of Patrick’s lips. Patrick lets out a satisfied noise, relaxing a bit into Jonny’s arms.

“Okay, now you can go.”

“Yes captain,” Patrick winks and heads out the door.

After the guests have left and the rooms are tidied, Jonathan does a sweep of the house, making sure windows are shut and double-checking locks on the doors. He doesn’t know where this sudden paranoia is coming from, but Jonny feels the need to assert some control over his environment.

He paces around the Inn for another hour, booking rooms and generally fluffing already-fluffed pillows.

Taking a deep breath, he resolves to head outside and take a walk. The woods behind the Inn call to him. They cover a few miles that overlap with a few other properties further on the outskirts of the town. As Jonny makes his way deeper, watching carefully for overly large debris, he appreciates the soft silence of his environment.

Focusing on the ground, Jonny doesn’t realize how far he’s gone until he hears a sudden crack and whips his head up. A squirrel scurries on past, but Jonny doesn’t notice it. Directly in front of him is a small shack, no larger than a public restroom. He’s never noticed it before, and something about its presence in the forest unnerves Jonny. The door isn’t locked, and Jonny quietly creeps up alongside it. A tiny window cut into the side doesn’t show movement, and Jonny can’t help but hold his breath as he turns the handle to open the door.

Inside, there’s a couple of bags of fertilizer and some rusty axes. Jonny lets out his breath, but then notices the shovel propped up in the corner. A dark stain covers the bottom, and Jonny takes a step forward to confirm that the color is eerily similar to dried blood.

Heart pounding in his chest, Jonny takes a step back, scrambling for his cell phone to call 911 when his phone suddenly goes off. Jonny jumps, phone flying out of his hands for a moment before he catches it. It’s Patrick, and before he can even get out a hello, he hears “Oh my god, Jonny. He’s _dead_!”

“What? Patrick?”

“Richards, the tech guy! He’s been killed. Someone fucking strangled him, and it’s all my fault!”

******

Jonny doesn’t know how many laws he breaks driving to get to Patrick’s side. It seems like all the cops are at Shakespeare and Company anyway, and Jonny is overcome with deja vu as he pushes people aside to find his partner.

Patrick’s face is bloodless, eyes staring at a space on the floor where a chalk outline has been drawn. Jonny sweeps him up into his arms, holding him tight. He hears Patrick moan into his neck, a sound of mixed relief and despair.

“They found him this morning. He’d been choked to death with the ropes that pull the curtain. Jonny, what if it’s because he knew something? What if someone here heard that I was going to lead the cops to question him and they decided to silence him?”

“Patrick,” Jonny murmurs, rocking his smaller body in his arms back and forth. Two deaths in less than a week. What the hell is this place coming to?

“They’re thinking of canceling the Fall Festival too. Everything we’ve worked for is falling apart.”

“Shh. You don’t know why he was killed. You can’t blame yourself.” Jonny presses his lips against Patrick’s hair. “ I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Patrick steps back, running shaky fingers through his curls. “Dude, there’s got to be something seriously seedy happening here if two members of the Company are dead.”

Jonny agrees, although his mind casts back to shed in the woods and the brownish stain on the shovel. “I need to talk to Sharp.”

As though summoned, the noticeably less fresh-faced sheriff approaches them. “You guys again, huh?”

Clutching Patrick’s hand, Jonny nods solemnly. “Can we talk somewhere, the three of us?”

Sharp leads them back to the lobby, heading towards the bar. He swipes a bottle of coke and pounds it back, before wiping his hand across his mouth. “Okay, hit me. This has officially been the worst week of my life.”

Jonny repeats what he learned from Mark the blogger, which makes Sharp’s eyebrows raise. “This is the first time I’m hearing about that. Guess your guy didn’t feel like sharing with the police after all.”

“That’s not all.” Patrick says and then gives his side of the story, sharing his conversations with fellow actors. “I forgot to call you last night, but apparently Chris Kelley and Richards were involved with something shady, something that had affected their professional interaction.”

Sharp nods. “And you suspect someone maybe overheard your conversation with him, and took the logical next step to silence him permanently?”

“It’s plausible,” Jonny tells him. Patrick nods. “It would mean this thing is bigger than two guys with a beef.”

“If Kelley was in Gambler’s Anonymous, it could have something to do with that.”

“You’re making a lot of leaps here. Just because he was seeing someone for his addiction doesn’t mean it has to do with his murder.” Sharp looks back and forth before leaning in. “I’m not supposed to be sharing this with you, but all of us are out of our depth here. Kelley had some long-standing financial issues. We’re looking into a potential life insurance situation with an estranged wife, and he’d been arrested for assault and battery a few years ago. There are many possible motives for Kelley’s death, and now Richards’.”

“I found something in the woods.” Jonathan says into the ensuing silence. Patrick and Sharp look at him with unison looks of anticipation. “There’s an old wooden shed about half a mile away from where the body was found. I dunno if you guys had found it the other day or not, but when I went to investigate I found a possible murder weapon. A shovel covered in some kind of dark stain.”

Sharp closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Look, I appreciate the Hardy Boys act here.” Patrick flashes Jonny a split-second grin, “But I’m going to ask the both of you to leave the investigation to us. He died between 9pm and 11pm, while he was putting some last minute set designs in place. If  Richards’s murder was carried out by a member of the company, then everyone needs to be vigilant right now and  until we interview and eliminate everyone who might’ve had access to the building during that time, we are asking that people stay close by. The two of you especially need to stick together. Two murders indirectly related to you both is a coincidence I’m not happy about.”

Jonny and Patrick nod silently, and exchange looks. Jonny wants to get them out of here and bring Patrick to his bedroom where they can lock the doors and block out all this shit for a little while.

Patrick seems to be on the same wavelength, reaching out a hand to catch Jonny’s hand when a voice calls Patrick’s name.

They turn to see a tall, fair-haired young guy with faintly chipmunk-ish features coming their way. “Hey, man I saw you head out here with that cop. Is everything alright?”

Jonny hears Patrick sigh and paste on a smile. “Yeah, sorry about that Rick. They want to interview everyone, and I just wanted to get out of here early.”

The other guy, Rick, nods and gives Jonny a strange look. Patrick gives a little start and then chuckles sheepishly. “You guys have never met, huh? Jonny this is Rick, he plays Jacques in our show. He’s a senior in high school and really talented.”

Rick flushes red and doesn’t take his eyes off of Patrick. Jonny isn’t in the mood for this shit and leans into Patrick’s body, wrapping a hand around his shoulder. “Nice to meet you Rick. I’m Jonathan, Patrick’s boyfriend.”

Rick opens his mouth. Then he closes it.

Jonny takes that as his cue. “See you around, Rick.” He escorts Patrick out the door, and when he looks down Patrick is shaking with laughter. “You asshole.”

“Had to stake my claim,” Jonny replies wryly. “That happen to you a lot?”

“About once every other season. It’s Shakespeare man, it inflames the passions.”

“Apparently, you stud.”

Patrick laughs and the sound lightens his heart, casting away some of the shadows from the previous two hours. Jonny puts Rick out of mind, but instead he focuses again on the shack in the woods. “I don’t think Sharp takes it seriously enough. A shovel is a logical murder weapon, and I don’t want to remove it in case it disturbs some evidence.”

“We should check it out again to see if the murderer stops by to dispose of it. It would be easy enough for anyone to stumble upon it.”

“Yeah, but they could come by at any time. And we can’t stay there all night.”

Patrick pauses beside him. “Unless we can.”

Jonny turns to face him. “What?”

“I mean, we’ve been playing detective the last few days and look where it’s got us. Maybe we need to step it up a notch and do a full-on stakeout.”

Jonny regards the man in front of him, who is basically the love of his fucking life and who just suggested they hold a stakeout in the middle of the woods in November.

“I’ll bring the blankets.”

 

*****

Patrick brings the booze, which is Jonny’s first sign that maybe he has a dual purpose for this night. His second clue is a joint, which they pass along as they huddle up under a pile of blankets in a safely secluded part of the woods behind the Inn. The stakeout isn’t complete without a pair of binoculars, which they realize is more and more useless as it gets darker and they can’t use light.

After two hours with no movement around the shed and a couple more hits, Patrick asks Jonny to “Look at the stars and tell me what you see.”

Jonny almost busts a gut laughing, to which Patrick giggle-whispers to him that they are the worst detectives ever.

Out here, despite the mission of their little endeavor, it seems like the two dead bodies are a million miles away. The stress of the day’s events are a distant memory next to the reality of Patrick at his side, body shivering slightly in his layers of fleece.

"If the murderer was to come back for the weapon and happens to stumble upon our stoned and drunk asses, how do we defend ourselves?” Jonny wonders.

“Your razor sharp wit?” Patrick suggests, snorting into his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re hot.” Jonny says, leaning in to kiss him.

They make out for a while as the woods get darker and stiller. Rather than oppressive, Jonny feels like the world is on pause for him and Patrick, letting them have this moment together.

He lays sucking wet kisses against Patrick’s neck, making him moan. “Shh,” He tells Patrick, covering his mouth with his hand. Patrick, the prick, licks his palm and then bites down gently on the skin. The sensation makes Jonny’s dick twitch, and he flips on top of Patrick and lets their pelvises grind together.

“We are ten million different kinds of vulnerable right now,” Patrick murmurs into his mouth.

“I’ll protect you,” Jonny replies, and he does feel weirdly invincible in the face of all this death, like he’s somehow fought it off.

They fool around a bit more, but before they can take it to nude-levels of further, a series of sharp snaps wrenches them apart. Jonny whips his head around, trying to locate the source of the noise and he can hear Patrick behind him, grabbing the binoculars and holding them up like a weapon.

Neither of them move, gazing into the darkness, the shed lit dimly by the pale of the moon. Jonny feels adrenaline fill his veins, and he’s prepared to fight. He’s not going to let anyone touch Patrick.

A white shaggy dog pokes out from behind the shed and shuffles its way towards Jonny and Patrick, stopping to sit on its hind legs about a foot away from them.

“Um.” Is all Patrick says.

Jonny feels all the tension leak out of his body at once. “This was a stupid idea. I’m freezing and thirsty. No one’s going to come by.”

Patrick reaches down to let the dog sniff his fingers before allowing him to pet his fur. “Well, it was worth a shot. Do we wanna take this little guy with us?”

Jonny regards the dog, who similarly stares back at him. “We can take him if you want.”

“Great,” Patrick replies, and just as he opens his arms the dog takes off like a shot, leaving them both behind. “Wow. Little dude runs fast. Guess he belongs to someone else.”

Cold and a little embarrassed, they make their way back to the Inn, snuggling under the covers to warm up.

Patrick’s hand finds his in the darkness of their bedroom. “I know that Sharp has all these other motives in mind, but there has to be a connection between Kelley and Richards and we just don’t have the bigger picture yet. I know that we should just leave this to the professionals, but Jonny...”

“Yeah,” He agrees. “I know what you mean. It feels like our responsibility. That body was found where we live, and it made things personal. We can figure out our next step tomorrow.”

“Okay, just. Just don’t you do anything stupid either,” Patrick tells him, voice low and urgent.

“I never do anything stupid,” Jonny replies.

*******

When an unknown number pops up on his caller ID, Jonny has a strange moment where he thinks it’s the killer come to confess.

Instead it’s Mark Lazerus. “Hi, uh, Mr. Toews? Jonathan? It’s Mark from the coffee shop. Listen, I heard about the other murder and there are some things I’d been holding back when I met you last that could maybe help with the investigation.”

“Why are you telling me? Why not the police?” Jonny asks, his foot starting to tap under his desk in either nervousness or excitement.

Mark makes a low noise. “I just...I don’t want everyone to know my business. I’ve been in this program for a few years now and have my life on track. I don’t want the police or anyone affiliated to think I’m some sort of bad guy.”

“So you want to pass on to me what you know and I’ll figure out a way to get it to the cops?”

“Yes.” Mark sounds relieved. “But I can’t tell you over the phone. I’m in the cafe now and it’s too public. Can I come to your Inn in twenty minutes?”

Jonny agrees and then lets himself outside to wait, not trusting himself to stay still and not mess with the tchotchkes artfully scattered around the living room.

Soon enough a beat-up sedan pulls into the driveway and out comes Mark, looking frazzled.

“Let’s not be so exposed,” He says to Jonny, leading him into the cemetery where the large evergreens give them a reasonable amount of cover. Jonny notices his rake, left abandoned up against a particularly large stone from when Jonny found the body not a week ago.

It makes Jonny feel a bit ridiculous, and he prepares for something like a sob story about a cheating wife or blackmail.

Instead he gets: “A secret underground high stakes gambling ring?”

Mark nods vehemently. “Chris confessed about three weeks ago that he’d slipped up, had found out about a place where people could gather and bet on anything. The brokers would take money on any odds, except it was huge chunks of change. People lost more often than they won, but there were no rules so they kept coming back. Chris told me he was getting in too deep, and that the people who ran it were dangerous and willing to use them as repayment for their lost bets. Manual labor, intimidation, thievery...they were setting up a whole operation.”

Jonny is blown away. “Who? Who the hell in the Berkshires would put that sort of thing together?”  
  
Mark shakes his head. “He was too afraid to tell me; said they had eyes everywhere. But the week before he died he told me he was tired of being afraid and that he was going to turn himself into the police and expose the ring before it ruined any more lives.”

“And then he dies before he can do that.” Jonny’s mind is whirling. “So then maybe Richards was part of it, either as an associate of the leaders or another victim. That’s why they killed him too.” Jesus Christ.

“Look, I have no idea how to track down who was in charge, but I do know that this knowledge is dangerous, especially since these people have no qualms about murder.”

Jonny shakes his head in disbelief, reaching for something in his mind that seems so close. “But then, the fact that he was so close to me. He rang my doorbell, and then he died. It has to mean...” It has to mean that whomever he was meeting had to be local. Someone who may even be closer to Jonny and Patrick then they think.

Just as the thought pops into his head, Jonny hears another pop, loud and way too close to his ear. He whips his head around to see a bullet hole smack in the middle of a gravestone and has a split-second of disconnect before he shouts “Get down!” and another bullet comes whirling past him.

Mark drops like a sack of potatoes, and Jonny fears for a moment that he’s dead before he hears a groan and sees Mark clutching his bicep.

“Mother _fucker_ , they’re shooting at us!”

Jonny doesn’t dare raise his head to find out who ‘they’ are, as another bullet smacks into a nearby tree, this time with greater force. Whoever is shooting at them is coming closer, he realizes with a sick jolt.

“Stay low,” he hisses to Mark. “Your car is only a few yards away. Once you’ve cleared the cemetary make a run for it and hide behind the car.” Mark nods, face red with fear and pain.

They scramble as quickly as they can for the edge of the plot, where a grouping of trees allow them stand up and brace themselves. Jonathan thrusts himself forward, sprinting for the car even as he hears another pull of the shotgun. It whizzes past him and hits the sedan, giving him enough time to fling himself behind it.

Mark follows shortly after and Jonathan pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials 911, barking into the receiver their situation. They don’t hear any more bullets, nor to they hear the sounds of footsteps crunching against un-raked leaves.

“Give me your keys,” He hisses to Mark, who grimaces but reaches with his good hand into his pocket and shoves the keys at Jonny.

The drivers side door is on their side, and Jonny remains low, opening the door and savagely pushing down on the car horn. The noise blares out in staccato bursts, sending a bunch of birds flying and is bound to get enough attention from the neighbors who might’ve ignored gunshots, thinking it was just hunters. Jonny also hopes it’ll scare away who ever’s shooting at them, because he’s not sure he can risk getting into the car and starting it without providing their attacker a perfect line of sight.

Thankfully the police station is only minutes away and soon the car horn is joined by sirens as three cop cars come careening into Jonny’s parking lot. Jonny has another stray thought thanking fuck that there aren’t any guests, and then he and Mark are surrounded by cops in vests and with guns trained on the cemetery.

Sharp is there, and he yells orders for his officers to move in teams to scour the area. Jonny realizes with a faint lurch that whoever shot at them had come from the woods that surrounded their property, and probably knows the area better than the cops do.

An ambulance arrives shortly after, once the perimeter is contained and Mark is carried off to the hospital to have his arm checked.

Shaking, Jonny allows himself to be led by Sharp towards the gazebo.

“That may have been the first shootout this town has seen in decades.” He’s informed, and Jonny can’t even snort. The danger before had been remote, for all that he and Patrick had confronted death in the last few days. Other people had died, not them. But now someone’s taken a gun and has tried to end Jonny’s life.

Jonny, the ex-hockey player turned innkeeper whose most pressing concern on any given day was whether he had enough lavender-scented soap to stock fourteen bathrooms.

“Did you see whoever shot at you?” Sharp asks, and Jonny shakes his head.

“He must’ve come from the woods. You need to check that shed I found--maybe he stashed the weapon there.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Jonny suddenly remembers the whole point of him being outside that afternoon. “Listen, I need to tell you something about the case, and you have to listen to me.”

Sharp stares at him for a long while before cocking an eyebrow. “Buddy, you better believe I’m listening to whatever you have to say.”

******

Jonny’s finishing up relaying what Mark told him when he hears Patrick scream his name and looks up to see the man running up the walkway. Jonny’s not halfway out of the gazebo when he gets an armful of blond curls, Patrick making a high keening noise into his chest and clutching at his back.

Tears spring to Jonny’s eyes, because any wrong move made earlier and he would never feel this again.

“Jonny, _fuck_ ,” Patrick sobs. “I heard on fucking WAMC, they said there had been gunshots at the Inn and I was so afraid I’d find you on the ground.”

Jonny doesn’t know how long he holds Patrick to him, the two of them shaking together. He vaguely notices Sharp awkwardly inching out of the gazebo and squeezing past him, but lets himself be consumed with Patrick’s skin, his scent, the way he says his name.

“Jonny,” he hears, and when he releases Patrick he sees Duncs and Seabs, looking ashen faced and worried.  They take turns embracing him too. “Jesus Christ, what even is your life?”

Jonny can’t even come up with a quippy answer, he’s suddenly so exhausted.

“Listen, the two of you can’t be here tonight. Whoever tried to shoot you is still out there, so you’re going to be staying with us for the time being.”

Jonny nods and receives a confirming echo from Patrick, who volunteers to run in and grab their stuff.

That night, after he’s assured Patrick for the umpteenth time that he’s fine, Patrick takes care of him, working over his body with gentle ruthlessness. He drags every inch of pleasure out of Jonny, concentrating on all his sensitive areas with his mouth.

Jonny feels wired, desperate with the need to feel alive, and he quickly takes control, flipping Patrick onto his hands and knees and fucking him with fast and brutal efficiency. Patrick has bite down on his hand to muffle his noise so Duncs and Seabs don’t hear them beyond the guest room.

His thrusts sync in time with his repeated, “I love you _so_. _fucking_. _much_.”

Patrick can only repeat his name, but Jonny takes that to mean the sentiment’s returned.

Afterwards, still cuddled together, Patrick whispers, “You living is the best birthday present anyone could ask for.”

Jonny’s eye flick to the clock, which reads a little past midnight and swallows the regret that he couldn’t celebrate Patrick’s 29th birthday the way he wanted to, in their home together and unworried about any crazy gunman stalking the woods.

He leans over and kisses his boyfriend, his partner, his lover. “We’ll be back at the Inn soon enough, bitching about picky guests and you eating all the leftover muffins.”

Patrick lets out a soft laugh. “Who’da thunk you’d actually miss bitching about tourists?”

Jonny smiles, relaxes into Patrick’s arms and lets himself drift into a much-needed sleep.

******

The show must go on, as always, and the next day Patrick is summoned back to rehearsals for opening of Fall Festival that night. Jonny plugs in his laptop and methodically calls to cancel every reservation for that weekend, hating himself for the loss of business.

Sharp drops by to talk more about the case with him. Jonny’s tip about the ring apparently keyed in some previously unnoticed details, and things were beginning to come out of the woodwork.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sharp tells him, “This thing’s been going on under our noses for years. We just need to figure out who’s in charge. We have cops going door to door at residences questioning people, but that’s not good PR for the department. We need a breakthrough soon.”

Jonny shakes his head. “I wish I could help, but all it seems I do is almost get killed.”

Sharp rests a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done enough and have been through enough. Go watch your boyfriend be awesome on stage tonight and we’ll be in touch.”

Jonny makes his way to the theater early that evening, feeling strangely uneasy without the daily routine of looking after guests or straightening up around the Inn. The lobby is half full when he gets there, eager high schoolers mingling with locals and tourists alike.

Jonny ducks into the backstage area, asking one of the assistants to grab Patrick.

When he shows up, Jonny’s struck dumb. As always, Patrick in full costume is a sight to behold. As Orlando, he’s playing up the renaissance puffy shirt and high-waisted pantaloons. Dark pencil is smudged around his eyes to make them pop on stage, and his curls are artfully tousled and held together with what must be pounds of hairspray.

Instead of the cocky smile he’s expecting, Patrick’s expression is grim, and he grabs Jonny’s arm and pulls him into the adjoining stairway room.

“I need to tell you something, and this might sound really crazy, but hear me out.”

Jonny nods, waiting.

Patrick takes a deep breath. “So remember Rick, the guy you met the other day? Turns out his last name is Klein, as in, the grandson of the Kleins who basically run the building next to us. He just came up to me and confessed his undying love, which by itself is pretty unremarkable, except he said that he’d been the one to ring the doorbell the night that Chris died. He said he’d gotten drunk with some friends and was heading back towards his grandparents to crash when he decided to ring the doorbell to see if I was home.”

Jonny stares at him, confused. “Wait, I thought he didn’t even know who I was. How did he know where I lived?”

“Because, get this, that friend he’d gotten drunk with? Chris. Chris, who knew about us and pointed it out to him. He said he got dropped off by Chris, who said he needed to talk to the Kleins about something to do with historic commission business, even though it was like a quarter to midnight. And then he got bored with waiting around so he rang the doorbell, chickened out and then ran away. Except he didn’t see Chris after that.” Patrick’s wide-eyed and intense. “He told me he ended up feeling guilty about showing up at his grandparents all drunk and messy so he called up a buddy who lived nearby and stayed with him instead. He didn’t even wonder what happened to Chris until after he was dead.”

Things were starting to make a sick kind of sense. “So you’re saying that Chris died after meeting with the Kleins, who were, for some unknown reason, hanging out at the library at midnight?”

“Unless they were there for some other reason.”

“Motherfucker.” Jonny takes a seat on the stairs, Patrick falling next to him. “So let’s say the Kleins are running the show. Chris threatens to expose them and they kill him, leaving his body in an area so close to the woods that it looks like anyone could have dumped him there. But then what about Richards?”

“They were there that night,” Patrick says dully. “They were at the restaurant when I told you Richards knew something about Chris, and that I was going to tell the cops what I knew. They must’ve given Rick a ride home and then taken his key card to get into the backstage area, where Richards was working and then waited until he was alone.”

Jonny tries to picture tiny little Edna Klein, who always had a smile for Jonny. He then pictures her ex-veteran of a husband, the biggest sourpuss he’d ever met. For one to hold Richards down while the other strangled him...?

“Huh.” Is all Jonny can say to that. He and Patrick sit in silence for a long time.

“All we have is circumstantial evidence. It means nothing without a murder weapon. If we can find that then we can nail them.”

“So we go to the library after the show and we look around. Rick’s in another show later tonight so the Kleins will stay here after _As You Like It_ wraps up.”

Jonny looks at Patrick and thinks of where they were this time last year, fumbling to fit the thing between them into a new form with new boundaries. Soft and unsure of where they stood. Now today, even with his illusions being dismantled all around him, he finds strength in their bond, their partnership.

“I’ll call Sharp before we go, maybe we can get him to come with us before we make it official.”

Patrick nods and stands, smoothing out his costume. “I can’t believe this is our life,” He says, and Jonny’s not sure whether it’s meant as a positive or negative.

So Jonny settles on saying, “It’s just one week.” He reaches a hand to touch Patrick’s cheek, careful of the make up. “We have forever.” It’s shamefully sweet and his skin heats even as he’s saying it, but it works to snap Patrick out of his funk and he flashes a familiar impish grin at Jonny.

“Love it when you talk sappy.” Patrick seems to reach inside of himself, pulling on that quality that makes him such a fucking good actor, and it’s like he transforms into a man taller, stronger and more assured than ever. Jonny can’t tell if it’s an illusion or just the newest updated version of Patrick Kane, but it makes him draw the man to him and kiss him gratefully.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby after the show is done and we’ll go bust this case wide open, eh?”

“Yes, Captain.” Patrick’s smile shows dimples and Jonny thumbs one of them.

“Good. Go break a leg.”

*****

The show is, predictably, terrific. The balance between the youth actors and the established veterans makes for an interesting mix of styles, blending polish and sincerity. Amongst it all, Patrick manages to capture the agony and ecstasy of being young and brave and stupidly in love.

Jonny can’t help but cast his gaze along the audience, searching for a familiar couple. When he spots them, he finds to his alarm that they’re already looking at him, twin shrewd gazes locked on his. He wonders if Rick told them what he told Patrick. He wonders if they know that he knows. He wonders if they know Jonny’s about to expose them as the criminals they are.

Jonny throws himself into being the perfect audience member, laughing and cheering and gasping as Shakespeare calls for it. A succinct and carefully crafted hour and a half later, the show is over and the audience streams back to the lobby to wait twenty minutes for the next showing.

Jonny feels an uneasy prickle in his belly as he loses sight of the Kleins. He can’t tell if they’re still in the building or if they’ve left, but he finds Patrick soon after and without speaking they make a break for the car.

Speeding down Route 7 and heading into Great Barrington, Jonny calls up Sharp and growls in frustration when he has to leave a message. “Sharp, Patrick and I have a theory that it’s Edna and Mickey Kleim who are behind all this. I know it sounds crazy, but the timelines match up and I bet you anything the murder weapon is stashed in that building, which is where they run their gambling ring from. We need to move fast in case they get there before us and destroy the evidence. Please, if you get this send whoever you can.”

“You think he’ll believe us?” Patrick asks when he hangs up, makeup and costume still on.

“We sound like a couple of crazies, suggesting that the town’s most civic-minded couple are also a bunch of murdering kingpins.”

“Then let’s hope we’re wrong and all of this was a stupid misunderstanding.”

Jonny’s relieved to see that no one’s in the parking lot of the library, and Patrick pulls in underneath some trees. They walk around to the back of the library, formerly the town’s meeting hall. The white building with its antique shutters looks like something out of a fairy tale, and then they find the door unlocked, it seems a little too easy.

The darkness falling outside casts shadows against the white walls of the first floor, where the library books are kept. The place is too cramped and crowded for anything like a meeting table to be placed inside, and similarly so with the upstairs archive room. Jonny’s just about to give up when he notices the door almost camouflaged against the wall near the mudroom. It’s behind a shelf on wheels, which Jonny takes as a good sign of its frequent use.

The door leads to a set of stairs heading down to what must be a cellar.

When Jonny switches on the lights he sees a large poker table in the center of the room, surrounded by chairs and beyond that piles of boxes. Portable safes are stacked on top of the other and nestled in the corner are old firearms. One of the shotgun ends is darkly stained.

“I don’t know what I was expecting.” Patrick says. “Maybe something more upscale than folding office chairs, I guess.”

“I doesn’t matter. The Kleins must’ve been running this for ages. No one would think to look for gambling in the town’s library.”

Patrick moves closer to him and then grabs his cell to snap a photo of the room and weapons. Jonny feels a dark resentment curl in his chest. When he’d moved to this town it was to get away from the action and drama of professional sports. He thought he’d found peace here, but he’d stupidly forgotten that no one’s exactly what they seem. He’s certainly proof of that.

“Should we just wait here for Sharp to come?” Patrick asks.

“I don’t even know if he got our message. Either way, we need to move before the Kleins get back.”

“Too late, son.”

The low voice comes from the top of the stairs and Patrick and Jonny whirl around to see Mr. Klein silhouetted against the doorway.

“Come on up and we can talk about this.”

Jonny’s first instinct is to throw himself in front of Patrick, but Patrick grabs his hand instead and pulls.

Klein isn’t armed, he thinks with relief. If needed, the two of them could take him on.

At the top of the stairs Mr. Klein steps back, his face grim. Behind him, Mrs. Klein holds up a shotgun.

“My wife’s been a member of the NRA since she was a girl. I wouldn’t make any sudden movements if I were you.”

“You killed those people,” Patrick accuses, body tense as stone. “All to protect your shittly little operation.”

“Language, Mr. Kane,” chides Mrs. Klein, her tiny form unwavering as the aims the gun at his face.

“You can’t kill us,” Jonny says, trying to sound calm when in fact his heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. “We’ve called the police and you’ve stupidly left the murder weapon here. I bet your fingerprints are all over it.”

“The nice thing about being beloved in your small town is that there’s a whole lot of skepticism when someone accuses you of murder.” Remarks Mr. Klein “Enough skepticism that after we kill you and dispose of you bodies in the shed out back, it’ll be a little while before people make the connection. Time enough to find someplace new to settle down.”

“What about Rick?” Patrick asks. “He can put two and two together, Chris drove him here the night he died.”

“Rick’s a simple hormonal teenager who will keep his mouth shut. He knows the value of loyalty.”

“Enough,” snaps Mrs. Klein. Jonny remembers her bringing cookies to his door the week he moved in. “Let’s get moving. Boys, you walk in between me and Joe. If you try anything I’ll shoot you.”

Every molecule in Jonny screams for him to grab Patrick and run, run back to his Inn where the heat needs to be turned on and the scones need to be baked and breakfast starts at 8:30. But instead he’s marched out the door and across the lot into the cemetery. It’s bitterly cold, even with his coat. Patrick walks in front of him, hair still styled in those ridiculous curls. Jonny would give anything to see him safe.

They stop at the corner of the cemetery where the woods meet, and where Jonny likes to dump his piles of leaves. He sees his rake, propped up against the gravestone.

They stop there, and Jonny grabs Patrick’s hand again, drawing him near.

“Don’t do this. Just leave us here and we won’t move and you and your husband can go. We won’t come after you.”

Mrs. Klein shakes her head, “You’ve seen too much. You know too much. I’m sorry boys.”

“Don’t you _fucking_ touch him,” Patrick shouts, putting himself in front of Jonny.

Jonny uses the distraction to grab the rake and hurl it, like a spear, at Mrs. Klein. She flinches and the shotgun goes off, bullet going wide. Jonny throws himself at her, barreling into her stomach and knocking the gun out of her hand. She goes down with a harsh noise, and Jonny takes no shame in punching her in the face.

Patrick shouts, and he whips around to see Mr. Klein going after him, face set in a savage scowl.

Jonny throws himself off of the woman and scrambles for the gun, but the man is on him before he can, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing.

Jonny chokes, flinging his limbs around to shove the older man off of him. He hears a sharp thwack and Mr. Klein freezes on top of him.

It’s Patrick, holding the rake and looking like some avenging demon with his pretentious ruffled shirt and smeared eye makeup. “Get your fucking hands off of him, you son of a bitch.”

Mr. Klein snarls and tries to lift off Jonny, but Jonny uses the relaxed grip around his throat to sit up and wrap his arms around the man, using the momentum to flip them over so he’s on top.

Mr. Klein thrashes beneath him, and to his left he sees his wife struggling to stand. Patrick points the rake at her and says “If you move, I will smash this into your face.”

Jonny reaches out to grab the shotgun and levels it at the man’s face. He’s never shot a gun, doesn’t even know how to operate this thing, but Mr. Klein freezes like he does.

The four of them pant, frozen in this suspended moment, and then hear sirens wailing in the distance. The next thing Jonny knows, Sharp is there with his deputies. He surveys the scene and sighs.

“You and Patrick want to explain why you’ve incapacitated two eighty year-olds in a cemetery?”

*****

After the Kleins are arrested, and after Sharp gets the whole explanation, Jonny and Patrick stand by themselves in front of their Inn. The cemetery has been cordoned off, and police tape surrounds the library. All the nosy neighbors have gone home, and all their friends have been called and assuaged.

Patrick lets out a noisy sigh, resting his head on Jonny’s shoulder. “This has been the shittiest day of my life.”

“Happy Birthday,” Jonny returns wryly, “At least for another thirty minutes.”

Patrick snorts out a laugh. “Jonny don’t be funny right now. We literally almost died tonight.”

Jonny wraps an arm around him, bringing him close. “I don’t even know what I would’ve done if she had killed you. It almost wasn’t real.”

Patrick kisses him, and it’s like coming home. Jonny clutches at him, ignoring the cold and the dark around them. Patrick’s all the warmth and light he needs.

Later, back in bed and still recapping the crazy shit that happened, Patrick rolls over and points a finger in Jonny’s face. “You were the one who was all ‘don’t get involved, Patrick.’ And then you basically bogarted the case. Sharp should deputize you.”

Jonny shrugs, “It was basically the most active I’ve been since I bought the Inn.”

“Not counting our sex life,” Patrick replies.

Jonny laughs and it’s like the weight of the past few days is lifted, and it’s just him and Patrick, the way it was always meant to be.

“I love you,” He says, after they’ve made out for a bit, each too tired to do anything more.

Patrick grins, sleepily and perfect. “I love you too. Do we have any guests tomorrow?”

“Nah, not until Tuesday.”

“Good,” Patrick says. “Cause I’m taking you on a vacation. We’ll go away for a few days, stay at another bed and breakfast, eat like pigs.”

“You don’t want to stay at a hotel instead?”

“Jonny.” Patrick says, giving him a look. “If you think for one second I’m going to give up on the chance to see you scowl and judge another cutesy little country inn, then you’re the stupidest man I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not that bad,” Jonny protests, though it’s true: if people think he’s the worst innkeeper, then they’ve never had him as a guest.

“Yes you are. You’re lucky I love you so much.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, watching Patrick drift off. “I am.”

 

THE END

 

 


End file.
